I give him Gearhart’s name. “I don’t have a number. He’s at the Fairmont Resort.”
I’m waiting about three hours—or so it seems—until the sergeant finally reappears and wordlessly unlocks my cage, leads me out.
Gearhart is standing there, rumpled and weary, shaking his mane.
“You’re free to go,” says the sergeant.
Gearhart leads me out to a waiting taxi.
“What took you?” I say.
Gearhart smirks. “I suppose I could have gotten here an hour earlier.”
We ride mostly in silence back to the Fairmont.
As we’re pulling into the resort, Gearhart says, “Nothing good can happen between midnight and six in the morning.” And then he adds, “Now that you’ve got a dog, you’ve got to be more responsible.”
14.
I’m up early. Coffee. Water. Food. And I wangle the Fairmont to ride me on a shuttle into Butte, the police pound. I barely have enough cash to cover the towing fee, but I pay up and skedaddle back to the resort—and Gearhart, waiting in the lobby.
“Boise?” I say.
“Boise,” Gearhart confirms. “The cops do that?”
“Do what?”
“Your black eye.”
“Huh?” I hadn’t noticed. “No.” I shake my head. “Happened at a bar.”
Gearhart smirks. “Over a girl,” he mumbles. “It’s always over a girl. I hope you gave him one back.”
“Wasn’t worth it.”
“Always stand up to a bully. Whatever you get, give it back twice as hard.”
“I believe you, but right now I recommend a snappy departure.”
“Why? You have someone else after you?”
“No,” I whisper. “Pablo redecorated my room. I think he got inspired by Chef Joshua’s Huckleberry Buffalo.”
Gearhart places his right hand over his eyes, a see no evil moment.
I grab my things and snuggle Pablo—my Chihuahua—beneath my shirt, settle him on some dirty clothes in the backseat, and we hit the road. On this day there is little else before us (few other cars, this way or that) and some of the most astonishing scenery I’ve ever seen, and an appreciation of what people mean by the words big sky: left, right, front, and back, the sky is huge, with clouds sitting on far-off horizons.
By late morning my stomach is groaning.
“Any chance I can decide where to stop for something to eat?”
“Wouldn’t that be like rewarding your bad behavior?”
“Hey, I didn’t choose bad with that root beer place, Frostop.”
“What would be today’s choice?”
I make my case for Subway, the sandwich chain, and make myself even hungrier talking about it.
“On one condition,” says Gearhart. “Your treat.”
“Agreed.”
“You ever attend college?”
“Sure I did—a BA in History from UCSB. Then I discovered there’s not much I could do with it.”
“You could get a master’s and teach.”
“Teaching may be the worst profession of my time. I take the occasional computer science course at City College.”
“What will you do with it?”
“I’m going to create an app, make millions of dollars so I can surf every day and eat indigenous like you every night.”
“That’s like buying a lottery ticket,” says Gearhart. “For every success story there are a million failures. Not that you shouldn’t try, but don’t dwell on it.”
“But you said yourself, reality is money.”
“It is. You need it. Find a niche for yourself in the computer world, if that’s your passion.”
“My passion is surfing.”
“Can you teach it?”
“Can’t stand having kooks around me.”
“Kooks?”
“Beginners. They seriously get in the way, you know?”
“You know?”
“What kind of niche are you talking about?”
“A gap that people need but no one is paying attention to.”
“Look.” I point to a sign ahead. “Idaho Falls, Subway, Exit 118.”
I pull in, park, and beeline for teriyaki chicken on cheese jalapeno bread with everything on it. Gearhart opts for turkey, jack cheese, lettuce, tomato, avocado, and olive oil. And I buy a roast beef sandwich for Pablo, hold the bread and trimmings.
After gnawing through half the sandwich, I ask, “So what’s your idea of a gap or a niche in the computer world?”
“Off the top of my head?” Gearhart gingerly picks up his sandwich, bites into it, and chews. “The Internet is almost everyone’s biggest source of information these days. Not necessarily the best, but the biggest.”
“That’s a no-brainer.”
“And where does everyone go for fundamental reference-type information?”
“Google?”
“Beyond that, after they’ve done their Google search?”
“Where?”
“The free encyclopedia,” says Gearhart.
“Wikipedia?”
“As far as I can tell, your generation, and especially the generation coming after yours, seems to think Wikipedia is the definitive word on any subject. Yet it is a free-for-all on which anyone may contribute, so long as they follow a particular writing style and cite their information with references.”
“Your point?” I manage this through a major chomp-and-chew.
“Anything can be cited, even if it’s with bogus Internet posts. Wikipedia has been compromised. And will continue to be corrupted, because there is no real control behind it, just a network of volunteers, each of whom has no more control than anyone else who is willing to learn Wikipedia-speak and wants to write or edit.”
“Like I said, your point?”
“Let’s say you become a whiz at Wikipedia,” says Gearhart. “You can hire yourself to clients who want the truth told in a way they want readers to believe it.”
“That’s totally twisted, dude.”
“Exactly. Everyone twists the truth. They put their own spin on what they want people to know about them. Whether it’s politics or advertising or propaganda. Since everyone under forty years old puts their trust in Wikipedia, you can control, on behalf of a paying client, what they think of as the truth.”
“Is that what the government does?”
“That’s what some foreign governments are doing. I’m not sure ours is smart enough to have figured it out yet. They’re too busy sucking up data from everywhere that they’ll never have time to assess for lack of human resources.”
“Who would pay?”
“People or companies concerned about their image. It’s about subtle tweaks.”
“Is there a course I can take on Wikipedia?”
Gearhart shrugs. “Who knows? Could be. I’m just using it as an example.”
Back in the car, I hand-feed Pablo, a little at a time.
“You’re spoiling him with roast beef,” says Gearhart. “And he’s going to need a walk for recycling.”
“What I need is a pet store.”
“Boise,” says Gearhart.
“I may also need some cash.”
“For what?”
“Dog stuff: a leash, a collar, a dish, dog food.”
“Your dog, your tab,” says Gearhart.
“Wait a second, Bart was your idea.”
“I already told you my solution: a pound.”
“How can you let this dog die? That’s what they’ll do, you know.”
“It’s not our problem.”
“Sure it is. Pablo has been put in our laps.”
“Once you get beyond the idea of the pound, he’s in your lap, not mine.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Unfairness is the history of the world.”
“Can I at least borrow the money?”
“Against what?”
“You need collateral?”
“I need something.”
“I don’t have anything.”
“All right,” says Gearhart. “I guess I can loan you a hundred bucks on faith.”
Down the interstate we come upon a road sign for a town called Bliss.
“Let’s see what Bliss looks like,” says Gearhart.
I ramp off. The town is just a beaten-up roadhouse opposite a used tractor lot. And then we can’t ramp back on because of road maintenance and must double back ten miles just to rejoin the interstate.
“You know what the lesson is here?” says Gearhart.
“No, what?”
“Never trust Bliss. Or, as James Joyce wrote: ‘In times of happiness, don’t despair; misery is just around the corner.’”
Somewhere down the road, to our left, we see a traveling fair with a Ferris wheel and other amusements.
Gearhart sniffs the air in that way of his, when he seems satisfied with something, points it out as we pass by. “Always gives me a good feeling.”
“Not me.”
“You don’t like funfairs?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Whenever I went to one as a kid I always saw other kids having a great time with their dads.”
Gearhart dips into his bag, plucks something out, and pushes it on me. “Put this in the CD player.”
I oblige him and, for my sins, must endure not only The Best of Dion and the Belmonts, but also Gearhart’s whistling.
“You know what the rule of whistling is, don’t you?” I finally say.
“No.”
“If you’re not adding to the soundscape, it must go.”
“You obviously don’t know what the central rule of the road is, do you?”
“What is it?”
“Whoever pays for gas, makes the rules.”
We pull into Boise early, around three o’clock, and after pulling into The Grove Hotel—tall and modern—I discover my toothpaste has leaked onto everything in my plastic J. C. Penney bag, and also made its way around Abe’s interior.
“How’d that happen?” asks Gearhart, mildly amused.
“I lost the cap in my hotel bathroom.”
Gearhart sighs. “I guess the lesson here is, if you can’t cap it, lose it.”
He gets out and checks us in.
“No pets,” he says, handing me a key.
“Pablo can stay in Abe. He already staked it out anyway …”
“I know.” Gearhart pinches his nose, turns to leave.
“Hold on,” I say, “I know you’re going out to scout everything, like you did in Jackson.”
He nods.
“Do you mind if I tag along, see how you figure out where to eat and whatever else?”
Gearhart smiles. “See you down here in fifteen minutes.”
15.
The first thing Gearhart does is ask the concierge for one of their local maps, and the second is ask their recommendations for drinks and dinner. (When he’s done, I find out about the nearest, cheapest pet store.)
Then he sets out, this time with me in tow.
“I understand they have a revitalized historic downtown,” he says, as we stride Grove Street. “But I’m not holding my breath.”
“That’s cynical.”
He winks. “The key to happiness is low expectations.”
Ninth Street brings a smile to his eyes. “This is what I had hoped of Butte, of anywhere. A revitalized historical district.” He looks around in amazement “Boise. Who would’ve known?”
From beat-up Butte to buoyant Boise.
“What is it you’re seeing?” I ask.
“It’s clean, well maintained. Even the modern architecture is tasteful, side by side with preserved historic structures. And everyone is so polite, friendly. That’s the America I remember.”
We turn left. Gearhart scopes out a wine bar called Bodovina, part of a galleria of shops and art studios, one containing the work of a nocturnal artist that exaggerates light as contrast against the dark. Gearhart notes the artist’s name. (“For my daughter. She’s always on the lookout for fresh approaches to nocturnes.”)
Out he goes, across Ninth to the R. Grey Gallery, an artsy jeweler’s. I follow him and watch as he pokes around, absorbing whatever he finds of interest. He zeroes in on a display case, a collection called REALSTEEL.
“What’s the story on this?” he asks a female sales assistant. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“My father’s line,” she replies. “Made from recycled steel and gems. He likes to think of his creations as sculpture you can wear.”
I point to a pin: a twisted railroad nail with a red gemstone in the center. “That’s cool.”
“Why do you like it?” asks Gearhart.
“The symbolism. Nailed.”
“You think of yourself as a martyr?”
“It’s been rough,” I say. “I’m not complaining, but it speaks to me.”
He nods, looks around some more, and then we’re out, strolling Ninth again.
We pass Lucky Fins seafood restaurant, which the concierge mentioned.
“Reminds me of Subway,” says Gearhart. “One notch above fast food.”
Further on: a Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse.
“Good to know,” says Gearhart. “But I try to avoid chains, even the quality ones.”
One more block, and Gearhart nails it: a bar and tapas-style restaurant called Juniper.
“Here’s where I will be at 6:33,” he says, his recon at an end. “Now I’m going back to my room for a nap.”
And I head to Petco for supplies.
16.
An admission here: I have a pet peeve of almost pathological proportions.
I hate when people talk loudly, or at all, on cell phones in public places, like in bars and restaurants.
When they do this—and it happens a lot—I am compelled to glare at the perpetrator and, if they don’t get the message, I speak loud enough to whomever I’m with, or to myself if I’m alone, so the gabber can hear how rude I think he or she is.
When they ignore me, as they always do, I speak louder and louder, until it causes them to either terminate their call or nervously go outside and finish it. Sometimes they complain, and once in a while it gets me booted from whatever bar or restaurant I’m in.
My beach buddies get a kick out of it, maybe not realizing how serious I am, or how unable I am to control it.
Anyway, Gearhart is not amused when I start sounding off in Juniper about a rude bitch down the bar having a drawn out conversation with someone and sharing details of her life nobody around us wants to know.
“People with cell phones need to learn some manners,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Gearhart is drinking a Junipero gin martini next to me at the bar. “I’m trying to enjoy my cocktail,” he says. “Knock it off.”
“How can we enjoy a drink,” I say loudly, “when that obnoxiously rude bitch spouts off about her personal life for all to hear? As if anyone cares.”
“You’re the one acting obnoxious.”
“It’s not an act, man. I really mean it.”
“Keep it up and either you’re leaving or I’m leaving.”
Another minute passes and this bitch is still yakking away like there’s no tomorrow, and I erupt: “I just can’t believe how friggin’ rude some people are with their cell phones! This is noise pollution!”
Gearhart gets off his stool, grabs his martini glass, cocktail napkin, and shaker, and moves clear down to the other side of the bar.
So I figure, what the hell, he’s an old fart and I’m doing him a favor hanging out when I could be chasing tail. The night awaits me.
Another admission: I have a bit of an authority problem. I’m just real sensitive about getting told off.
So, I think, he wants me to go away?
I’m gone, man. Adios amigo (as much as it grieves me to walk out on the buffalo meatballs we ordered).
I walk briskly to the hotel with my dark thoughts, wonder
ing why I’d stuck around this long with a crotchety old sourpuss. Like, he’s such great company?
I throw everything into my J. C. Penney bags, go down, and climb into Abe with Pablo, who in my absence laid a couple of small turds on the front passenger seat.
I clean up the mess (fortunately, I bought paper towels and sanitary spray at Petco), lower all the windows, give it a moment, and burn rubber, leaving Boise in my rearview mirror, where it belongs.
I get on I-84 West and cut south on Route 95, straddling the border with Oregon for another twenty minutes before my temper subsides and I start to reason it through.
I am irrational about rude cell phone users, damn them.
Gearhart did give me a warning, which I did not heed.
In a strange sort of way, I kind of missed the old buzzard. This would not be the right way to end our road trip.
I look at Pablo, who’s sitting in the front passenger seat—Gearhart’s seat—and he looks mournful, like he too misses Gearhart.
“You don’t really want to go back and get him, do you?”
Pablo winks at me—a good one-eye wink.
“What? All right. But if it weren’t for me you’d be on death row right now.”
So I turn around and follow my tracks all the way back to the Grove, decide that Gearhart must be in for the night, none the wiser about my abrupt departure, and rejoin the buzz on Ninth Street after tucking Pablo into his backseat bed.
By this time, mid-evening, it is alive with young people—bohemians, hipsters, and colorful characters—and some of the most gorgeous gals I’ve ever seen, dressed in skirts and dresses and made up for the night much nicer than the faux blonde and Botox brigade in southern Cal.
I do a couple of dive bars in the Basque neighborhood—Pengilly’s Saloon, Whiskey Bar, a couple shots, hand out dollar bills to a war vet and a mother of three (says their signs)—and straggle back to the Grove. On impulse, I keep walking; a nightcap, maybe, and I find myself standing outside Bodovino, that wine bar Gearhart scouted upon arrival.
I go in, and there he is, Gearhart, sitting at the bar, a glass of red wine in front of him.
I broadside him. “Late for you, isn’t it?”
He smiles wide. “Much too late. Allow me to introduce you to Stephanie.”
I look around and face an awesomely attractive young woman behind the bar. Long dark hair, peach complexion, big brown eyes, and shapely, oh so shapely.
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